I stared at her. “Driffield. His seat is in Yorkshire, in the East Riding. Do you mean to tell me—”
“Yes, dearest.” She patted my hand. “Bellmont will be in Yorkshire very soon. And he means to call upon us here whilst he is in the north.”
I let loose a stream of colourful language I had learned from my brother Benedick.
“You have conjugated that particular word most incorrectly, but I quite agree,” Portia told me. “If it is any consolation to you, I propose we put him in Lady Allenby’s bedchamber for the duration of his stay. I will be quite happy to share with you again, and he can spend his nights being stared awake by a bleeding Jesus.”
“I can think of no one more deserving,” I said sharply. This was a new worry I did not need. Bellmont’s presence at Grimsgrave would effectively end my involvement in the many mysteries I was ravelling out. He capitulated often enough when Father exerted his influence, but we were far from London, and if Brisbane wanted me gone, Bellmont was entirely capable of packing me off. There was no hope for it, I decided, lengthening my stride and taking in great lungsful of fresh moor wind. If I wanted to solve the mysteries that swirled around Grimsgrave Hall, I would have to do it myself, and before Bellmont came. There was no time to waste.
Brisbane had been irrationally pleased that Portia and I had gone to the village, and thoroughly annoyed when we returned.
“I had rather hoped you had both come to your senses and gone home,” he commented nastily upon seeing us.
Portia merely put out her tongue at him and proceeded to instruct Mrs. Butters to lay our supper. He retired to his room then, to sulk no doubt, which was just as well. I had much to think about, and Brisbane was frequently a distraction.
True to her word, Ailith had removed Portia’s things to Lady Allenby’s chamber, and I ought to have had a peaceful night’s rest. Instead, a hundred questions tangled in my mind, keeping me wakeful long past midnight.
At length I fell into a long, pointless dream about picking mushrooms with Rosalie and Rook while Godwin sat on a riverbank, playing mournful tunes on a flute and Ailith arranged furniture made of acorn caps and twigs in her dolls’ house. Back and forth Brisbane strode on the horizon, never moving farther away, never coming closer. It was a maddening dream, and I felt oddly unsettled when I rose.
If nothing else, the dream suggested a visit to Rosalie might be in order, and I set off for the little cottage on the moor shortly after breakfast, leaving the rest of the inhabitants of Grimsgrave to their various occupations. Portia was reading—a thick, densely-written tome about India. Minna was stirring up a pudding under Mrs. Butters’ watchful eye whilst Jetty turned out the larder for a thorough scrubbing. Morag could not be shifted from her post with the pups, clucking over them like a doting mother hen. Valerius was busy hammering upon the new henhouse with his sore hands, watched closely by a nervous flock of chickens who seemed to disapprove of his plans. Ailith applied herself to her mending, and I kept to my plan and turned my steps to Rosalie’s, bearing a basket with a fresh ham pie, courtesy of Minna’s efforts in the kitchens.
But before I reached the moor, another notion struck me. The person most likely to illuminate Redwall Allenby’s character was his sister. Not Ailith, she had been too fond of him. Her simple, sisterly affection may well have blinded her to his faults. No, it was an altogether more critical observation I wanted.
I found Hilda in the garden, tucked in the limbs of an apple tree, her feet dangling just above my head.
“I am reading,” she told me without looking up from her book. “Leave me be.”
“I would like to speak with you, Miss Hilda. Will you come down, or shall I come up?” I called pleasantly.
She regarded me suspiciously. “You would, wouldn’t you?” She sighed and snapped the book closed, shoving it into her pocket. “Very well.”
She scrambled down, neatly as a monkey, then stood in front of me, her shoulders rounded down, hands thrust into her pockets.
“Valerius is no carpenter, but he seems to be making quite good progress on the henhouse. I don’t wonder it will be finished soon.”
“The chickens were perfectly happy with the old house,” she said flatly.
“Then why did you permit my brother to build them another?”
She gave shake of her head as an impatient pony will do. “Because I am humouring him. He has been kind to me and he wants to do this.”
I was impressed in spite of myself. “You astonish me, Miss Hilda. Most people recognise the importance of giving. Few understand the importance of letting others give. Yes, Valerius is a bit of a fixer. Nothing gives him greater pleasure than to think he’s been useful. It’s a family failing,” I mused, reflecting briefly how much satisfaction I had had in solving the little mysteries I had encountered.
Her gaze narrowed. “You have not come to discuss the chickens. What do you want of me?”
“I want to know about Redwall.”
Emotion of some sort flickered over her face, but I could not read it. “Why?”
“Because I would like to understand his character,” I temporised. “I have been fascinated to work on his collection, and I want to know more about the man who built it.”
She put her head to the side, her cool gaze running over me from booted feet to the locks I had pinned into submission behind my ears. “You are untruthful, Lady Julia. But it doesn’t matter. I will tell you all you need to know about Redwall. He was selfish and greedy, and whatever evil you can conceive, he was capable of its execution. Our father was cruel and amoral, and Redwall was his equal. He had no sense of duty or propriety, and I did not love him. I did not even like him.”
She stopped then, her breath coming quite fast. It was a lengthy speech for her, and I gave her a moment to compose herself.
“Do you remember a coffin, an Egyptian lady’s coffin, in his collection? I believe it was owned by your grandfather first,” I said at last.
If the change of subject unbalanced her, she did not betray it. “Yes. It was the first piece in Redwall’s collection. He unrolled the mummy without the slightest bit of scientific method, I am sorry to say. He quite destroyed it,” she finished bitterly.
“When was the last time you saw the coffin?”
Hilda shook her head. “Years ago, before he left for Egypt. Probably when he unrolled the mummy. I imagine it was thrown back in the storeroom after that. I told you, I was not permitted to touch his things,” she said coldly.
“I understand. Thank you,” I said, giving her a cordial nod. I walked around her then to the moor gate.
“Why do you care?” she called after me. “Let the dead bury the dead, or haven’t you heard that?”
I turned. “Yes, but I find they so often don’t.”
It was a cool, grey morning, the air freshening over the moor, the sort of weather that might burn away into glorious sunshine by noon, or might just as easily turn to lowering skies and thick, black clouds. Still, I hoped it would hold as I wished to speak with Valerius before I ventured out to Rosalie’s cottage. I made my way to the poultry yard to speak with my brother.
“Valerius!” I cried over the din of his hammering. He waved and dropped his hammer, barely missing his foot. His face was grimy with dust from the chickens and he looked nearly as disreputable as Godwin usually did.
“I was hoping to speak with you and Portia,” he said. “I thought I could tell you both at the same time, but I suppose I will have to face you down separately.”
He looked serious, sober even, and I put out a hand. “Val, what is it? Are you ill?”
He smiled and linked his arm with mine, a rare gesture of affection. “No, I wanted to talk to you about Miss Hilda.”
I gave him a little pat. “Excellent. I came to discuss that very subject. I thought to give you a word of warning.”
His expression sobered. “Julia, I must stop you there, for I will hear no word against her. I have quite made up my mind. I mean to ask Mi
ss Hilda to marry me.”
“Are you quite mad?” I asked, pulling my arm from his. “Val, you cannot. You hardly know the girl.”
“I know her well enough,” he countered roundly. “I know her character. She is honest, as honest as the earth. She has a good mind and—I know you will not believe it—but she can be quite funny at times.”
“And this is your basis for marriage? The most important decision you will ever make,” I argued.
His colour rose a little. “I can think of worse reasons to marry,” he said. If his words pricked like thorns, I believe it was unintentional.
I stared at the toes of my boots, torn. “I feel I ought to counsel you, to point out that marriage ought to be based on sounder reasons than those you offer.”
“Why don’t you then?” he asked.
“Because I am a fool. I know property and family and common interests are supposed to be the pillars of a good match, but I cannot preach to you what I do not believe myself. I married for security and look what became of me. I was the Mistletoe Bough bride.”
Valerius’ warm hand closed over mine. “I am glad you understand.”
“I did not say that,” I warned him. “In fact, I object, strenuously, for the opposite reason. Val, you cannot take a wife so dispassionately, as if you were ordering soup from a menu. Life is far too long to spend it shackled with someone who does not—”
I broke off and looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He prodded me. “Someone who does not?”
“Someone who does not rouse your passions,” I said in a burst of bravado. “Tepid affection or an overdeveloped sense of chivalry are no proper reasons for marriage. Surely you must see that.”
He turned to me, mouth agape. “Chivalry? You think I mean to rescue her?”
“Of course you do. What other reason could there possibly be? Valerius, I have seen the dancers you admire. I know your tastes well enough. If you have ever kissed a girl who was not tiny and brunette and buxom, I will eat my basket.”
His cheeks wore a painful flush. “Bellmont was right about you. Your association with Brisbane has coarsened you. I cannot believe you would notice such things, much less speak of them.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Because I am a woman? What hypocrites you men are! You and Bellmont could happily spend an entire evening judging the opera chorus like a pair of horse dealers, and yet I am vulgar because I am willing to speak of what you ought to know well enough. For God’s sake, Valerius, you have studied medicine! If you do not appreciate the fact that women have passions as well as you, then you are not fit to treat them.”
He swallowed hard, his jaw set. “This discussion has become both uncomfortable and unprofitable. I see no need to prolong it. I intend to offer my hand to Hilda Allenby.”
He turned on his heel and left me then, scattering chickens as he went. I hurried out onto the moor in a bad temper, an incipient headache lurking as I walked, hoping my interview with Rosalie would be more productive than either of my previous conversations.
As I drew nearer, I could hear a thin thread of violin music reaching out over the waving grasses of the moorland. It was a Gypsy tune, quick and lively, beckoning me onward. When I reached the wicket gate, Rosalie threw open the door, rosy and smiling.
“Lady, come and meet my husband!” I handed her the basket with my compliments, and she thanked me. She stepped back and I entered the cottage. Standing in front of the window was a Gypsy man of middling height, wiry and dark, with dancing black eyes and handsome features. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, and even a touch of flirtation as he drew his bow across the violin on one last, dancing note.
He was dressed in traditional Roma garb, with breeches tucked into soft leather boots to the knee, his shirt gaily patterned with checks and a scarlet handkerchief tied neatly about his neck. He wore a waistcoat, buttoned to show off his trim waist, and he sported a pair of handsome, lush moustaches, liberally oiled.
When he saw me, he doffed his flat cap and swept a courtly bow. “Good day to you, my lady. I am John-the-Baptist Smith.”
I smiled and extended my hand. “How do you do? I am Lady Julia Grey.”
He smiled back at me, his teeth flashing beautifully white against his olive skin. “Oh, I know you, lady. My Rosalie tells me all.”
“Indeed? Then I shall be glad I have confessed to no crimes,” I said lightly.
Rosalie did not laugh, but her husband roared, slapping his knees. “Tea, Rosalie love,” he called, and she moved to put the kettle on.
“You should take Rook for a walk on the moor,” she told him when she had done. “He returned yesterday, and he is pining for some attention. The tea will be ready when you return.”
It was subtly done, but both John-the-Baptist and I knew it was an order, not a request. It amused me to find that Rosalie wielded such power in their relationship, but as John-the-Baptist took down his coat and whistled for the dog, I realised it was probably only because he permitted it.
“A singular fellow,” I commented when he had gone. “And a likeable one.”
“Indeed” was her only reply.
“It is a rare man who would consent to have a wife he could see only once or twice a year,” I said, keeping my tone casual.
She shrugged. “Some men would see it as a blessing. No one to nag constantly, no one to spend his money.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I rather think John-the-Baptist would prefer your presence, don’t you?”
She sat then, heavily, and gave me a sigh. It sounded like a breath of surrender, and I knew it was time to ask the questions I wanted answered.
“Why didn’t you tell me Sir Alfred Allenby was the man responsible for putting Mariah Young in gaol?”
Rosalie’s face had settled into lines of fatigue, or was it despair? There was something old and tired about her, and for the first time I realised how much of her youthful vigour was an illusion. There were spots on the backs of her hands, just a few, and there seemed to be more silver threads among the black of her hair.
“Yes, the Allenbys and the Youngs have a long history,” she said finally. “Our destinies were intertwined long ago, and even now we are not able to break free.”
“Of course you could,” I said sharply. “Brisbane has only to sell this place and you to go travelling with your husband. No one is keeping you here.”
Rosalie laughed, a dry, brittle, mirthless sound. “She does. She keeps me here. I swore an oath to her, and I am bound by it, as firmly as by the strongest iron chains.”
“Are you talking about Mariah? Rosalie, she has been dead for thirty years. You owe her nothing. If there ever was a debt or obligation, you have certainly paid it by now.”
She shook her head, her expression mournful. “You do not understand. The blood oath is a thing which cannot be broken, must not be broken. I am bound to remain here until it is done.”
“Until what is done?” I demanded, my frustration rising. I had had my fill of half truths and enigmatic tales.
But she merely shook her head again, turning her wedding ring round and round on her finger, the slender band of gold mellow in the firelight.
“It was my fault,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“What was your fault?”
“Laudanum.” She spoke slowly then, each word delivered painfully, as if being wrenched from her. “She suffered so from the headaches. I wanted her to be free of it. I gave it to her the first time. But she took it so often, too often. And she needed more and more to keep the pain at bay. That last day, she needed it so desperately, and I would not get it for her. We quarrelled, and I told her if she needed it—” She broke off, closing her eyes, her hands fisted in her lap. “I told her if she needed it she would have to steal it herself.”
“Oh,” I breathed, finally understanding at long last the burden of guilt Rosalie Smith carried upon her shoulders.
She opened her eyes. They were tearless, but full of pain, and I hated m
yself a little for opening such wounds.
“She was seen, and when they made her turn out her pockets, there it was.”
She spread her hands helplessly, and I took one in my own. “Rosalie, it was not your fault. Mariah made her choices, and they were not good ones.” I thought for a fleeting moment of Brisbane and his devils, wondering if it was even possible for him to avoid his mother’s fate. I tightened my grip on her hand. “Rosalie, what is in the red syrup you gave to Brisbane? Is it poppy?”
She shook her head. “No. I would not give him syrup of poppy. He wanted it, but I knew it would destroy him. It is dangerous, the poppy—the hedge witch’s laudanum. I gave him a special mixture of lettuce and skullcap, with a little colouring of beetroot so he would think it made of poppy. It will soothe a headache and induce sleep, but it is not dangerous.”
I sagged in my chair, boneless with relief. “Thank God for that,” I murmured. “I threw his out. I thought it was poppy. If you have more, I ought to take it to him.”
“He has already been,” she told me. The kettle had begun to boil and she rose to prepare the tea, moving slowly, as a woman underwater. “He came this morning to fetch it.” She flicked me a sidelong glance. “You are meddlesome, Lady Julia. But from the best motives, I think.”
“Of course from the best motives,” I snapped. “I do not want anything to happen to him.”
She spooned leaves into the teapot and poured in the water. I noticed something else in there as well, a few starry borage flowers. I said nothing. I could use whatever courage I could find, I decided.
“Something has already happened to him,” Rosalie said, bringing the pot to the table. “He had a vision this morning, a gruesome one.”
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